Updated: Feb 19
Seven years. My life was completely different. I was completely different. Like an explosion a hair’s breath away from ignition, wrapped up in leather and razor-sharp chains, I constantly sat at the edge, waiting for the slightest thing to go wrong. Thing was, I was always the thing about to go wrong.
In February of 2013, I voluntarily checked myself into Kaseman Medical Center’s psychiatric wing. For three days in a row, I was unable to think about anything else but the multitude of ways that I could kill myself. Sleep offered no respite, as I was haunted by dreams of death and my inability to escape it at my own hands. I couldn’t stop crying, balling, at thoughts that were boats filled with people, careening over the edge of a waterfall, only to find rocks and hard earth. After a frantic, and panicked call to my psychologist, I found myself at Kaseman, I think my youngest sister took me there, and within moments of checking in, I was given something, to calm me down. It worked.
I finally found rest, darkness, and no dreams. The following morning was filled with regimented routines designed to bring order to chaos, and heal. It was exactly what I needed. I was like Basic Training Camp in the US Army (and just a bit of a nit-pick, it totally gets under my skin when people call the US Army and US Air Force training Boot Camp; Boot Camp is a Marine or US Navy term, and in the US Army and US Air Force it’s call Basic Training Camp – BTC), where there’s a time for eating and socializing, a time for individual care, group care, and most of the waking day was spent alone in our rooms. Again, this was exactly what I needed to start the process. I was allowed a pencil, sharpener, and paper. I needed to write, ask myself questions, and then answer them. It was the only way I was going to be able to begin to understand.
I had found myself mimicking the horrid behavior of my evil-step-father, and at the same time responding as I was still a child living with him, terrified of whatever next step that might be just a hair wrong, because he’d fly into a rage at the slightest whim, and with the anger of a million swarming wasps, eager to sting and may even kill, inadvertently. I had to find a way out of this behavior, this pattern that would only lead to ruin and death, mine or someone else’s. After six days and seven nights I was released under the care of my mother, and my psychologist, who I’d be seeing twice a week. There was a lot of work ahead of me, and I was fortunate to be able to take paid sick-leave for six months.
Next Monday, the 24th of February, 2020, I’ll continue the tale. In the meantime, have a poke around, look at my art here on the site, or here: